A COUNTRY HOLIDAY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22320, 18 January 1936, Page 6 (Supplement)

A COUNTRY HOLIDAY

BY J.C.W,

EXPECTATIONS—AND REALITIES MODERN FARMING DE LUXE

Some time ago I was asked to stay ■with a friend of mind in the country. I received the invitation with some trepidation, first, been use I am not particularly fond of country life, and secondly, because I am rather inclined to hanker after the "flesh-pots"—the latter being, in my case, tramcars, shop windows and all "the comforts of town life. However, as I was invited for only one week and did not want to disappoint my friend, I accepted. As regards farm life I am woefully ignorant, and my only vivid memories of previous experiences were of a draughty, lamp-lit house miles from anywhere, acres of mud, spiders lurking in all the rafters, and last, but not least, a horribly over-powering smell of cows and pigs. Consequently, when 1 told my husband that I had accepted the present invitation, he smiled a superior masculine smile and said, "You'll never stick it; I'll come for you in about three days." Now, in spite of any misgivings I may have had myself, George's words filled me with such exasperation that I was determined to go, even though I had to go in a spring cart, sleep in a lumpy bed, wash in icy water, and undress by candle-light. Next morning, as I packed my oldest and most sensible clothes, I felt so excitedly adventurous that I was ready to rough it as my pioneering ancestors had done before me. . ' The First Surprise When my host and hostess called for me I was somewhat surprised to find that instead of the spring cart I had visualised I was to ride in an ultrastreamlined car, but I consoled myself with the thought that probably farmery nowadays invested all their spare cash in a car, and the farm suffered accordingly. As / the hedges and paddocks flashed pasi I began to wonder just when we should reach the bumpy, potboied road leading to the farm. Dusk fell, and still the well-sprung car rode effortlessly' over the smooth tar-sealed loads. Suddenly we passed through a wide white gate and down a tree-bordered drive. I carefully alighted and prepared to pick my way over the mud and slush, but a smooth stretch of cement met my gaze, and as my hostess hurried ahead to light the lamps (as I thought) I walked to the back door to be met by a stream of brilliant electric light. I entered then, not the smoky lamp-lit kitchen of my dreams, but a modern, grev-enamelled kitchen with an electric stove and kettle. As I followed my hostess into the charmingly appointed guest room my illusions were again dispelled; where were the spiders, the candle and the lumpy bed? They had not eventuated so far. Even the bathroom failed to come up to my expectations; for here were a gleaming porcelain bath and basin and an abundance of hot water— I felt quite depressed as I washed my hands! This would never do at all. As we had our tea in the attractive livingroom to the music of a short-wave wireless set I found myself listening carefully to hear just one cow or pig before I went to bed, and under cover of the conversation I sniffed a surreptitious sniff, but not one "moo!" or grunt did I hear, and not one tiny smell assailed my nostrils. When I finally went to bed with a pile of up-to-date literature, I had a feeling of extreme thankfulness that George could not see me I A Model' Farm The next day I was taken round the farm —and what a farm! The cows were in well-fenced paddocks and the pigs in clean,' well-built sties, all well away from the house. The all-electric cowshed, with its hot water supply and scoured cement floors was a source of wonderment to me, and I felt for one I awful moment that I should have wiped | my-feet before entering. The rustic fences and gaily blooming flower beds round the house were delightful, and if I had not gazed steadfastly at the cows and pigsi. I would have imagined Ciyself in some charming suburban garden. When I returned to the house I begged my hostess to let me do something to make me feel I was really in the country, and after a lot of thought she said triumphantly: "You can make the butter!" As I turned the handle of the churn I remembered with rather a sinking feeling that we had had only factory butter on the table, so probably the butter-making was invented to soothe my ruffled feelings. The Last Hope The day before I was to leave the i farm I cajoled piy host into letting me drive the farm cart. The horse did : not take too kindly to my efforts, but I hoped that with a certain amount of luck and honeyed words for the horse I could manage to drive George from the main road. Early on Sunday morning found me with my heart in my mouth and the horse standing patiently in the shafts; but George's first greeting to me on arrival was rather disappointing. "What's the idea," he asked. "The idea is," 1 said coldly, "that you leave the car here; you can get it later, and I shall drive you to the farm." Whether George was completely hypnotised by my expression or not I shall never know, but without any demur he got in beside-me, and with a "Get up, Polly" we were off. We bowled merrily along and through the gate which my host, with an eye to his gate-posts, > had left open. I packed my things that afternoon with a feeling of sadness. I was comdisillusioned; 1 had expected to impress George by my capacity for roughing it, bufc I had been literally Jiving in the lap of luxury. Still, I had mado some butter and I had driven George in the cart, and, after all, anyone, even a mere male, can drive a car' nowadays, but it takes brains and courage to drive a horse!